Fall 1991 • Vol. XIII No. 4 Poetry |

Sometimes a Warrior Comes Tired

When the last red man shall have perished from the earth and his memoryamong the white men shall have become a myth, these shores shall swarmwith the invisible dead of my tribe.                          CHIEF SEATTLE Sometimes a warrior comes tired in the guise of prepositionsof propositions and says of thee I sing when he meanswhat's the use . . . our race is doomed. And let's face it. In any waking dream about the most beautifulIndian girl on Mother Earth I'm going to use a rubber and blubber about it laterin the memories of nightmares of the plain wonderful womenI lost at the cost of never being responsiblefor something I don't quite remember now. Who listens and who cares less than those gods who dance with one hand on your ass and the other pinching their noses offended by your body stink? These white men strut into our lives with invisible robes. Their imaginary halos encircle our throatsuntil we look like those

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